Eve shall kiss night, And the leaves stir like rain As the wind stealeth light O'er the grass of the plain. Unseen are thine eyes Mid the dreamy nigh… - William Morris

Soon there will be nothing left except the lying dreams of history, the miserable wreckage of our museums and picture-galleries, and the carefully guarded interiors of our aesthetic drawing-rooms, unreal and foolish, fitting witnesses of the life of corruption that goes on there, so pinched and meagre and cowardly, with its concealment and ignoring, rather than restraint of, natural longings; which does not forbid the greedy indulgence in them if it can but be decently hidden.

As he formed the words, the train stopped at his station, five minutes' walk from his own house, which stood on the banks of the Thames, a little way above an ugly suspension bridge. He went out of the station, still discontented and unhappy, muttering "If I could but see it! if I could but see it!" but had not gone many steps towards the river before (says our friend who tells the story) all that discontent and trouble seemed to slip off him.

[The Liberals are] men possessed of property, but not of principles, whose consciences are just strong enough for them to dislike being called Conservatives, so long as they believe their property to be safe; but who will have to put up with being called reactionists about the time when their property seems to be in any danger. These politicians, who in fact are just hanging on till they see which way the cat is going to jump, are, of course, much the strongest party in our middle-class state, and since 1880 have had a good time indeed in dragging the conscientious Radicals who brought them into power though some of the dirtiest puddles in English history.